These Moments
by btch sprinkles
Summary: It's these moments John lives for. Everything changed when he met Sherlock Holmes, a deaf consulting detective. Unfortunately nothing is what it seems to be when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. SHxJW asexual Sherlock. Deaf Character.


When Mike Stamford suggested he meet a friend for a possible flatshare, John Watson thought, what the hell. What could it hurt, after all? Had to be better than the step-above-hostel he was currently in, and the very idea of taking his therapist's suggestion and "doing a web search for a flatmate" made him feel ill. John had seen enough ugly in the world to invite a total stranger like that into his home… if he'd had one, anyway.

But he trusted Mike, even if he'd always been a bit of a prat, and even if he had been the one to talk John into some of the stupidest things he'd done at St Bart's. And even if it had nearly gotten him expelled and thrown out of the Army. Mike was a grown up now, and he also looked rather mischievous which made John all the more curious to see what this potential flatshare would be like.

Of course he hadn't expected Sherlock Holmes. Some stoner, perhaps. An anti-military hippy, even. Possibly some old pensioner two steps away from the reaper's scythe. But definitely not Mr Sherlock Holmes.

And he was there in the room, standing about with his cheekbones and floppy curls and striking blue eyes, and John found he could barely breathe. The man was fucking beautiful. There were no other words for it, and his gaze snapped over to Mike who was smirking, but also gesturing something to the man standing in front of the microscope.

It took a full forty-five seconds for John to realize that the weird gestures were because this stranger friend of Stamford's was deaf. Under the black locks lay two, sleek silver hearing aids tucked into the crease of his ear, and his eyes darted this way and that, fiercely focused on their lips as John asked Mike what the hell was going on.

But Sherlock wanted a phone to text on, since a landline was useless to him, and Mike had forgotten his. So John offered his own and felt his heart race hard at the quirked upper lip and the intense way the man's gaze raked over his body. It was almost as if he was taking him apart mentally, bit by bit. Dismembered, naked, and totally exposed.

John shivered a little as the man handed the phone back. He was spelling something to Stamford now, and John caught a few letters, having taken two-thirds of a level one BSL class. Of course, he'd been ripped out early, shipped out, and shot, so fat lot of good the classes did. And frankly the sweltering, terrifying Afghani desert did quite a good job at removing all but the basic tools John needed to feed, shower and dress himself.

"He wants to know if it's Afghanistan or Iraq," Mike said.

John's eyes snapped back to Mike's face with a glare. He felt violated that they'd talk about him in a language he didn't understand. Yet. He didn't understand _yet_. Because if this really would turn into a flatshare situation, he'd have to adjust. "You told him that I—"

"Not a word," Mike said with a smirk.

"So how…?" John turned back to the man but said to Mike, "How did he know?"

Mike didn't have a chance to answer, however, because the man's impossibly long arm darted out, his impressive fingers closing around John's chin and yanked him forward a bit. John let out a muffled gasp, but the man's finger touched John's mouth and then thumped on the center of his chest. John didn't think it was a real sign, but it was clear enough, and he felt like an ass because he had been taught that much etiquette.

You speak to a Deaf person, not about them to the interpreter. He blushed and fumbled an apology after the man let him go, and repeated his question. The man smacked it out on his palms, and when he realized Mike hadn't been watching, he let out a deep-throated grunt of frustration, yanked a small pad of paper out of his pocket and scribbled one word.

'Obvious' it read, hovering in front of John's face. The paper ripped off, he scribbled again and this time he took the note to read it. '221 B Baker Street. Half seven, don't be late.'

Of course John would protest, because my god was this really going to happen? This Deaf stranger, who was really very strange, communication skills rudimentary mainly because it was obvious he didn't speak, and with John's lingering PTSD learning a new language would be tough.

And then he said, "That's it then? Some address? We don't even know each other, I don't even know your name."

This time the scribbling went on for ages, and when John took the note, his entire face went hot and red and he wondered if Mike was lying. Had to be, because my god no one could know this. But then again, how could Mike know? Mike didn't know about Harry's problem, couldn't possibly know about the drinking. And yeah, he'd mentioned he'd been shot but no one, no one knew the therapist's assessment of his limp. He didn't even tell people he'd been shot in the shoulder, not the bloody leg. But there it was.

'She's quite right, I'm afraid.'

The second note was tossed at him as the man winked and with a twirl of his coat, was out the door.

'Sherlock Holmes, don't forget, 221 B Baker Street.'

He'd grilled Stamford after that, because no one was that good. But Stamford insisted Sherlock was. He was a genius, a proper one, completely insane, and everyone hated him. He hung round at St. Bart's for his job, which Stamford didn't know exactly what the man did. But he worked often with the shy girl who'd brought coffee, and he didn't have much family.

And that's all John had to go on when he stepped out of the cab and saw Sherlock Holmes standing on the steps. He felt uncomfortable, unsure, but the curiosity far outweighed the negative and he really wanted to see if this could work. Because frankly, he didn't have a lot of other options and his military pension was enough to send him into a rage when he really thought about it. After everything he'd done…

But no, now was not the time for that mess. So he went upstairs and met Mrs. Hudson, loving her instantly. And the rent was cheap enough to where he could afford shelter and food. And Sherlock was impossibly messy, but it was quite obviously a controlled chaos, piles of written notes everywhere as Mrs. Hudson could barely sign two words, and Sherlock quite obviously had a lot to say.

John attempted the signs he did know, eliciting an impressed brow-lift from his possible flatmate, and Sherlock walked him through a few things. Slowly. Very slowly.

But it all changed when a police car showed up and a frazzled detective with a mix of broken signs and speech burst into the room. And it was bloody Christmas for Sherlock, which confused John, but when he was asked to go along, with that look in Sherlock's eye, he found himself saying yes because god he needed something to occupy himself.

Even if it was a serial killing.

He'd been warned about how much people around Sherlock hated him. He hadn't been warned he'd experience why. Standing alone on the cold street after being told off by a very angry, very snotty detective, John was wondering what the hell he had been thinking. This was a bloody awful idea. Ruddy stupid of Mike, who deserved a good beating after this.

No, no it was no good. He couldn't. No.

And the next thing he knew, he was in a car. Dreadful silence, too, with the woman next to him clacking away on her blackberry with some ridiculous fake name and quite possibly a wig on. The building was some industrial hunk of metal, tucked away north London where no one would possibly think to look for him, should anyone think to look in the first place.

The room was empty, echoing, his cane a third step as he crossed the concrete floor to a tall man standing with his back to John. There was a chair, and for a moment John felt a surge of adrenaline. He'd seen rooms like this before, oh yes. Right before the duct tape and ropes, before the water and electrical prods and waterboarding. Yeah, he knew rooms like this alright.

When he turned, John did an immediate scan. Tall, thin but skin sagging betraying either age or weight loss. He slouched a little, and his eyes were firm and fierce, a lot like Sherlock truth be told. They flicked between the woman and John, and then he smiled, turning slightly as he gestured to the chair.

"Ah Doctor Watson, finally. Do have a seat." He had a twinge of an accent, words spoken more in the back of his throat so possibly… German? John couldn't be sure. He noticed the man was wearing ear-pieces, tucked around his ear with a long cord. Recording device he had to assume. Possibly someone at the Yard had a problem with him at the crime scene. Or maybe this was the serial killer.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

And then it all came spilling out. This man, this tall, secret, strange man wanted John to keep an eye on Sherlock Holmes. Arch enemy, a term that nearly made John laugh out loud. And the whole thing would have been rather funny had it not been for the texts from Sherlock. Come to Baker Street at once. Could be dangerous.

Oh and how tempting the offer of money was, because John wasn't just a little scared of Sherlock Holmes, if he was being honest with himself… which wasn't very often considering all things. But he wouldn't even give this nameless stranger a chance to name a figure, which surprised even himself because fuck he was so broke and the government was doing fuck-all to make up for the position they'd put him in, in the first place.

"When can we expect the happy announcement?" The man's voice was mocking, full of mirth because even John, who while he fancied men, could tell right away that Sherlock likely preferred to be around dead bodies rather than live ones, and was likely not sexual at all. And it struck something in him because what John would love to do to that smirking mouth of his probably-would-be flatmate. And those eyes of him while he did it, too... my god.

But there was something about this man, the way he watched John as John refuted his requests. And how infuriating he was with the information he contained in his little black book. He was like Sherlock, but not nearly as good, that much was obvious. Perhaps that was why he wanted the information? Jealousy? Or maybe he was in love with Sherlock as John suspected so many were.

But no. It was something else.

Either way, John was having none of it and said as much. On his way home, and oh look- he was calling Baker Street home now, he stopped by the would-be hostel and picked up his things. He asked the woman out as he slipped out of the car, just for a laugh. It was worth it to see her fingers stumble on the blackberry keys for a moment.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he came in. John shut the door and cleared his throat, momentarily forgetting Sherlock couldn't hear him. When the consulting detective opened his eyes and weakly gestured to a giant whiteboard near the door, John startled.

That most definitely hadn't been there before.

**Flick that switch when you come in -**

Confused, John touched the switch and the lights in the flat flickered on and off like a strobe light for a moment. He'd never seen anything like it before, but logic told him it was how to alert a Deaf man to his presence.

Sherlock made the sign for phone and pointed at John. With a frown, he handed it over and asked, "Where's yours?"

Sherlock made a vague motion to the other side of the room and John rolled his eyes. Too bloody lazy to get off the sofa and fetch his own mobile. Jesus, what was he getting into. And then they worked out what the serial killer was going to do next.

Then came the drugs bust, which confused John because Sherlock? Really? And then came the shot. The fatal shot, killing the cabbie, stopping Sherlock from killing himself all to what? To prove he was clever? To prove he was better than the sick man lying on the floor bleeding out? But as he stared across the street through the dirty window, Sherlock's eyes meeting his with that bright, ecstatic, excited glint in them, John knew he was well and truly fucked.

His heart was long gone, since **Sherlock Holmes: 221 B Baker Street. Don't be late.**

And then there was the man again. The possible criminal mastermind with his ear piece and texting PA staring Sherlock down as they crossed the street, heading out for Dim Sum. John felt a surge of adrenaline then, thinking it was going to come to a head, that something was going to happen.

Then he caught the sign between them. Mummy. He remembered that one, because in his level ones they'd done all the family members, and colors and useless things that almost never come up in actual conversations. But it gave him pause, and with careful, clumsy hands he signed, 'Brother?'

'My brother, yes,' Sherlock's hands snapped back, and he went on to sign angrily, and his voice huffed out in a deep-throated almost whisper, "Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked at the sound of Sherlock's voice and sighed. "Please, Sherlock."

But the younger Holmes gave a very universal hand gesture and then started away. John thought he should follow immediately, but didn't, and he turned to Mycroft. "So when you said you were concerned about him? You were actually concerned? And it really is a childish feud?"

"I'm sure you can imagine the Christmas dinners," Mycroft said.

John said nearly nothing during the dinner, but in the flat he had to know. "Why do you hate your brother?"

It was the first time Sherlock didn't answer a question.

It was the sexual tension that had pushed him to ask out poor Sarah who hadn't a clue about anything, really. Just that whenever Sherlock did call, John answered it, and he hadn't truly meant to wrap her up in anything they'd gotten involved with.

But she'd noticed the long glances, and how hard John was working at his BSL levels, and how he'd shush her any time Sherlock was trying to sign something, even though noise made absolutely no difference whatsoever when the three of them were together. And okay so they'd solved the case in the end, and all three of them had nearly died at one point, but it worked and she was very done with John Watson.

John knew it was pointless and useless from the moment in the train yard when Sherlock had signed, 'Think' to him and then grabbed his face and held him close, willing him to remember the shapes. And then the way he nearly, very very nearly, kissed him when John produced the photos on the phone. There was something in his eyes there, something pressing, like a secret aching to burst forth, and John just really wanted it to be that Sherlock was secretly attracted to him.

There was no kiss in the end, though, just another solved case, and another ditched girlfriend, and another dozen pints. Mycroft came round from time to time. It took John six visits for him to realize he was not wearing earpieces. They were cochlear implants, and he spent the next five months wondering why Mycroft had them but Sherlock didn't. He never asked though, and every time John brought up Sherlock's family, the detective went very quiet.

It all came to a head, of course, when Moriarty attacked. And attacked is such a small word for what he'd done. He drove Sherlock nearly insane with the texts, with the phone calls John had to interpret, and then, in the end, when he'd taken John. He'd laughed before Sherlock arrived, wanted to see how scared they could make the detective.

John wasn't scared about being strapped, not really. Granted having a bomb on your chest was no easy thing, but it was more frightened because for a moment, just the briefest moment, it was clear Sherlock thought it was him. He was speaking, not signing, and Sherlock was squinting hard at his mouth as he read each word and his hands trembled on his gun.

But he got it, and John saw the abject relief flood across his face before he pulled it together. And then Moriarty appeared. They went back and forth, Moriarty switching between speech and signs, and he understood every word Sherlock's fingers slapped out, and then it was over.

John knew it was different the moment Sherlock began to rip the vest off him, too. It was the way his hands were just slightly more tender, and the way they lingered just a little. And yeah, he was willing to risk his death and John's to stop Moriarty, but when the crazed criminal left for good, there was just John and just Sherlock and it had shifted.

They were back in the flat now, both a little foggy-headed from everything, but Sherlock was sitting closer to him. And John wasn't sure who made the first move, and even years later couldn't work it out, but they were kissing and grabbing and pulling.

John's hand went straight to those curls he'd been obsessing about for years, desperate to see if they felt as soft as they had in his mind. And they were. Softer, in fact. Sherlock's mouth wasn't sweeter though, bitter and tinged with the sour taste of tobacco, but it didn't matter.

None of it mattered until the lamp fell and started Sherlock.

It wasn't that Sherlock was startled, or that the lamp had broken which forced John away. It was the fact that the lamp was off and Sherlock shouldn't have noticed. But the lamp crashed, and the consulting detective had heard it.

He'd heard it.

John pulled back, staring at him hard, confused, frowning, shaking. He stood up, fixing his shirt while Sherlock sat there staring at him, face blank. He wasn't sorry, that much was obvious. He also wasn't deaf, was he?

"Explain."

"I can't."

The baritone went straight to his middle, making it twitch. The words were clear, rich, like pure cacao and if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock had been lying to him for the last three years now, he probably could have overlooked it. But no. No he had to… he had to get out. He couldn't just sit there and…

He found himself in the pub just round the corner where he'd met the last four dates he'd been on. But no one approached him tonight as he nursed pint after pint. No one made eye contact, which was the only thing he was grateful for.

He was three sheets to the wind before Mycroft pulled him to a secluded table and sat him down. He ordered a scotch for himself and another beer for John, which he pushed across the table and said, "I recommend you not drink another, but manners dictate I should offer you something."

John licked his lips and curled his fingers around the glass, though he didn't take a drink yet. "Did you know? I mean… you know, right? That's he's not… he's… he can…"

"Hearing, I believe, is the word you're looking for. And yes, John. Of course I know."

John swallowed thickly and sat back, scratching the back of his head in frustration. "How? I mean… why? Why is he? I can't possibly understand what the point of that all was."

"I expect not," Mycroft said slowly. He swirled his scotch around in his glass, sipped it, and set it down so delicately it didn't make a sound. "I suppose my brother has remained tight lipped and closed hands on the topic of my family?"

John gave a tense nod. "Not a word."

"One thing you should understand about my brother, Dr. Watson, is that though he likes to reject the idea of normal, of ordinary, he wants nothing more. He wants nothing more than to not stick out amongst those closest to him. For much of his life, those closest to him were myself, Father, and Mother."

"And?" John pressed.

"And, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid we are all quite Deaf." When John quirked an eyebrow, Mycroft let out a little chuckle. "My family is very wealthy, very prominent amongst British society. Some consider us a long line of Aristocrats who happen to be deaf. My family considers themselves a long line of the Deaf who just happen to be Aristocrats. And the genetic condition hadn't skipped a single soul until my brother was born. Sherlock was special."

It hit John a little too hard with how much sense it made, and his hands around his pint gave a little tremble. "Jesus."

"Indeed. You can imagine a family so ingrained in the Deaf culture would make even the most beloved hearing son feel… wrong."

"And I'm going to go out on a limb and say Sherlock was far from beloved."

"He was a difficult child," Mycroft said from behind a sigh. "He was loud, he learned to speak from watching television, so his syntax was different from the other children at school. He was eight when he decided he'd gone Deaf. Far too clever for his own good, he mimicked symptoms of German Measles and bribed a doctor to diagnose him. Father and Mother knew, of course, and yet encouraged the behavior. They believed he was merely integrating into their society as best he could. No one tried to impress upon my brother to be proud of what he was, what he had. Not even myself."

"Why not you?" John nearly barked out. "You seem aware of the damage that's all done to him. Why let him live a lie?"

"Because Father and Mother had kicked me out," Mycroft said, spreading his hands. "I, too, felt I did not belong in the family. I didn't want to follow in Father's footsteps and become a doctor. I wanted to be in the government. I chose these," he tapped his implants, "and thus found myself removed."

"And Sherlock? He wanted to follow the family line? Become a doctor?" John asked, unable to imagine Sherlock treating patients.

Mycroft smiled, his head shaking slightly. "Sherlock wanted to be a pirate."

John laughed this time, hard, tears forming in his eyes as his shoulders shook. He swiped at the wetness and sighed. "So he continued to live this lie, then?"

"He was sent to a school for the Deaf, given the best education, which he promptly spat back in my parents' faces. Not that they deserved any less from him. His intelligence was never embraced. It's a mark of the Holmes to be obedient, not a genius, and Sherlock was so much the latter. Eventually my parents gave up on us both."

"So why keep up this ruse? Why bother?"

"Because he is different," Mycroft stressed. "He doesn't belong in either world, you see. You know him, possibly better than I ever could, Dr. Watson. Surely you see that."

John gave a miserable nod, touching his lips at the memory of the kiss, and he sighed. "I don't know what to do."

"Just understand a few things, and perhaps that will make the difference in your decision. Sherlock is not a normal person. He was cursed from the moment he took his first breath, and will be until the moment he breathes his last. It wasn't just Mummy and Daddy, either. It wasn't just the heroine, or the rush of adrenaline when he uncovers a killer. It wasn't things so unspeakable he'll likely never breathe a word of them. There are a great many secret things that have made my brother what he is today. That have fueled his decision to live the life he does. But those are things you must discover for yourself, Dr. Watson. And you must decide if it's worth it."

John found he had no response to that at all. What could he say? He knew about the drugs, sort of, and the sordid past, sort of. This whole deaf-not-deaf thing was just the cherry on the cake in the end. Did it change things? He couldn't possibly begin to know that yet.

Suddenly there was a small white card sitting next to his hand, and he picked it up. "My most secure and personal line. I trust you won't abuse it."

John wanted to ask why, what was it for, what was the point? But Mycroft was gone before he could form the question, and really, it didn't matter. Mycroft, on some really fucked up level, did love his brother.

The back of the card read, "Because I do want to see him happy."

It was two am when he returned, and the flat was unlocked. Sherlock was asleep on the sofa and didn't budge when John walked in. Perhaps it was being used to not reacting to noises his entire life, and he had to wonder what changed. Sherlock was so well trained, so how had the lamp startled him? Sherlock hadn't even reacted to surprise gunshots that nearly deafened John on their last case.

Sherlock stirred when John touched him, and he sat in the chair across from the detective. "I want you to tell me why." When Sherlock raised his hands, John grabbed them and shook his head. "I want you to tell me. I know you can. So just… just give me this one thing. I won't ask you to do it again. I swear it."

Twenty minutes passed before he spoke, and when he did, John knew it was all over for him. "I'm sorry."

It wasn't what John asked for, but it was what he needed. The space between them had become nonexistent, and it didn't go any further than kissing, because John had been right on one thing. Sherlock wasn't a sexual being. He was different. He was outside of what was considered normal.

But it was okay, because it was what John wanted.

He kept the secret, too, and they signed. In the still, quiet of the nights in bed, Sherlock spoke to him. He told him stories, about pirates on the high seas, and quietly sang ocean shanties. And it was these moments John lived for. It was these moments when the rest of the world ceased to exist, and it was only the two of them.


End file.
